Streetlights
by rettevronnoc
Summary: In a city of dirt and grime, the stars don't shine and the moon doesn't hang properly. That's why they have to rely on streetlights to keep them warm. [[PreRENT, hint of MarkRoger. Inspired by SoCo and kaz456]] [Greatest story this author has ever penned]
1. Streetlights and Stop Signs

**Streetlights**

**A/N: I don't own. I rent.**

* * *

Cut scene. 

The camera is zoomed in on the knob as it winds back. A hand enters the picture, knuckles in the center of the field of view, and it turns the knob backwards. As the camera begins to pan out, tan khakis and an over worn blue and red sweater come into focus.

Pan out and focus in on the loft.

The air is white against the frigid winter, and the fact that half of the furniture in the room is metal doesn't help. There's a sort of lingering in the room; a knowledge of the way things used to be, kind of like when someone smashes up a puzzle. The pieces are all there, and they all fit…however, the problem is figuring out _which _pieces go together.

Mark can't help but think that no matter how these pieces work together, they will still paint a distorted picture.

Maybe it will be a picture of Times Square, or maybe the Space, a little scene downtown where most protests were held. The puzzle pieces could shape together a building of NYU or even the picture of the subway lines.

Or, maybe, they could put together the picture of Mark sitting on the cold metal table, eyes accompanied with dark bags and a smell that could scare away deodorant. Maybe they could piece together the picture of Mark holding his camera, staring at his lap, not even bothering to wind the film anymore.

Maybe they could put together the same picture that has been in the loft for four days.

Mark refuses to eat, sleep, or move until Roger gets back. He will not give it. He will not allow the defeat to settle over him. War will be met with war, as what goes around comes around.

Still…there's only so much one can take.

And, for some odd reason, he can't _help _but wonder…if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, will it all be the same when he wakes up?

See, the protagonist in this story is decaying. He's been sitting on that table for four days, and has yet to even twitch. Mark is something everyone in this world likes to call "dependent." He depends on his camera and film and filming that guy in Central Park with a camera; on New York's orange streetlights and rat infested restaurants and restaurant loaded streets; on the school girls with backpacks and the little old lady whose bag was stolen. Mark captures them all on film and, in doing so, documents real life. He catches every possible minute that ticks by and replays it when the clock has gotten to a particularly bad hour. Every night that Roger stumbles into the loft drunk or high—or both—with a girl draped around his arm or a needle prepared to take her place, he can just shut off from the world and hide. The filmmaker can set up a projector in front of the cracked white walls of his room and be sucked back into the Life Café, when a waitress almost dropped a tray of glasses. Or when that guy in Central Park was filming Mark while Mark was filming him, and it was the funniest thing he had encountered all week. Maybe a month. It doesn't really matter, anyway—Mark hasn't laughed or even cracked a smile since the April's showers brought Roger's cowers.

It's kind of pathetic, how dependent he is on that camera, because fact of the matter is, when all is said and done, Mark will never make it big. He will never film some earth shattering documentary or poignantly moving film that will change lives worldwide. All Mark has is clips of life—clips of people in love and falling in love, clips of people dying and falling victim to disease. Mark has clips of things that everyone knows all too well. But for some reason, Mark continues. He knows he can find the beauty in any situation; he's always known that. Blurred lines and distortions and halflights have always fascinated him with the way they can change a scene and make it everything it's not.

Ever since he was young, the filmmaker has always been very mature. He understood causes and effects, accepted consequences, and quickly adapted to new situations. Even before all of that, though, Mark understood life and death and the difference between _being_ and _living_. For some reason, halflight has always drawn him into that; the notion that every day acknowledges what _was _and what _should be_. Halflight acknowledges existence in a world where the only person that knows one exists is oneself. Halflight was always there to assure Mark that after death, there is always some distortion to one's life. The impoverished poet's work becomes some of the most brilliant of the twentieth century after it is found in the pocket of the jacket covering his dead body in a snow covered alley where he lived. A fourth grade teacher saves dozens of lives by simply teaching her children that everyone has a conscious, even those guys that hold banks for hostage.

So, even though it's only real life, maybe the filmmaker's movies will teach people about life and death and love when it's found in a dusty old box in the closet of a NYU philosophy professor.

Maybe that's the exact reason he's become so attached to Roger.

Both he and the rock star have few things in common, but one of the strangest is the fact that their favorite time of day is exactly 5:46 PM. That's the time when the sun is neither up nor down, life is neither good nor bad, and you are neither alive nor dead. There is a medium to the world's smallest antonyms, and they become what _was _and what _should be_.

Mark's fascination with halflight started before Roger, but after Benny and dropping out of Brown. At first, when he and Collins would sit on the roof and look down at the well crafted hell that was Alphabet City, complete with its grid systems and robots, he thought it was an obsession that only the two shared. Then came Roger.

And with Roger came Maureen, and with Maureen came April, and with April came heroin.

The rock star's heroine was far too into heroin, and she was too vein about poisoning her veins. Mark could never really understand how one could take a needle in the arm so much, but then again, he _was_ always the little Jewish kid from Scarsdale that feared anything his sheltered life didn't include. Nevertheless, April gilded use, and two months ago, when she offed herself, the note she left left the guild's leader weak for weeks. Days like this, when the light coming through the loft windows is neither that of the sun or the moon, Mark need not be kneaded into a knight for the night. After all, he's used to this—or, at least, he used to be. There was a time when Mark would stay up for four, five days, back when Roger the Rock God ruled with temporary bags of amnesia.

This roommate, junkie, friend, _Roger_, has wales from nights of wailing and pain and withdrawal, and there are times when Mark thinks it's better to let the rock star slip into a drug induced daze than to have to count the days with him.

The worst thing about filming is that soon, one's brain starts to work as a camera, too. So even though two months have passed since April left, and even though Mark has scrubbed and scrubbed and _scrubbed_ his memory, the blood-stained letters, "WE'VE GOT AIDS" flicker vibrantly in his mind, the red of the liquid mixing with the red of her hair, both contrasting brightly against the white tile of the bathroom.

The lights in that room combined with the blinding white tile could probably provide the world with enough light in the case that the sun were to go out. There's also a distinct smell to the room—something that makes it special besides the fact that it was practically a crime scene (_Stupid slut just had to leave a syringe and spoon behind_, Mark thinks bitterly). It is what once was, and Mark's glad he'll never have to go through it again.

Next came the HIV test, and then the AZT. After that, Collins' progression to AIDS and his leave from NYU to MIT. Following that, Benny left Avenue B and Maureen began performing with 8BC.

Mark never hated the alphabet more in his life.

In July, when all of this whirlwind of disaster started and April left them for good, Roger promised he didn't need rehab. But, even when the track marks were gone, the dark circles remained on his too-thin frame and reminded the two what disease was wreaking havoc on the young man, making him so weak that he reeked from weeks of being unable to stand in the shower.

And then, suddenly, that all changed.

Roger tied a knot around his arm and fazed into a phase of rebellion. No more rules. No more "rehab." No more Mark.

Merry Christmas.

What should have happened by now is that Mark should forget about Roger, stop wasting his money trying to help a junkie, and move back to Scarsdale where he can have a real career. Mark should continue to film but also go back to accounting or economics or something of actual value. What should be is Mark in a desk, writing and writing with his blue pen until it stops writing and he gets the ink on his shirt from shaking it too hard.

That future is so dark that, for a second, Mark honestly thinks he's passed out.

But he's not, and that just launches him back into his wait. Waiting for Roger, for his film subject, for his best friend and roommate and whatever else they could possibly be. The strange thing about Roger is that no matter how unpredictable his actions are, his timing is that which you could set a watch to. It's the only reason Mark's bothered staying—he's _knows _Roger _will _come home.

In fact, it's only a matter of seconds until Roger reenters the loft, and it's only a few more minutes until halflight begins. Let the countdown commence.

Just as he contemplates moving, the loft door slams open and Roger bursts through. Mark looks up, scared and excited about what he's going to see. Part of him expects the old, dark Roger—the one that's addicted and angry and so torn, and the other part expects a new, starkly bright Roger—one that cleaned himself up and has a job and is HIV free.

However, the person standing in front of him is just normal Roger. Hair that's bleached except for the tips due to his lack of care for it in the past month, shining green eyes that are bloodshot and tired, and cuts and bruises equal to that of a crash dummy. An old leather jacket, old ripped jeans, and an old The Well Hungarians band tee shirt. He plops down on the couch they found in the dumpster that one day in March, and the rock star drops something big and apparently heavy on the floor.

Mark and Roger have spent a lot of days in the loft like this—the two just sitting there, letting so much go unsaid.

They were always too good for words, so back in January, when Mark wanted to know where Roger's guitar had been for the last two weeks, he simply looked at the rocker and held up his hand limply, moving the fingers to animate changing chords on the guitar.

Wanting to do nothing more than give a simple answer, Roger held up his baggies, looked away, and left.

Mark's never hated silence more in his life.

Well, except for now, of course.

There was a time when Roger wasn't constantly stoned and in a bad mood, and when April wouldn't twirling around the loft, singing songs way off pitch and never appreciating anything for what it simply _was_ instead of what it _could be_. There was a time when the only word to describe the loft was home. The eighth notes and quarter notes would echo from Roger's guitar and provide soundtrack for the room, Mark's voice narrating over the notes with a detailed description of the day. Somewhere in the background would be April's giggling, her voice moving silkily with the notes coming from the Fender. In a way, that Fender was what got them through the times. Forget what was going on and just slip into the sickly sweet notes Roger could create with the move of a finger and allow them to overtake the senses. But soon after, the giggling was replaced with a long sigh of relief and the music replaced with sharp intakes of breath and the sound of heroin crackling in a spoon. All of their problems started when that music stopped.

Now, in the silence, Mark points out the dangers of Roger's heroin use and lack of AZT intake, and informs the rock star that incase he doesn't already know, it'll just kill him faster. Roger argues that he's not dying, he'll never die, he's going to find his one song and become immortal and secure in the world. The two fight about blurred lines and distortions, the difference between what was and what should be, and halflight.

Roger fights about living forever; Mark fights about inspiring forever.

After the silence passes, Roger moves to the window seat and stares at the orangey purple light falling on the trash ridden city.

"It's halflight," Roger states as if Mark didn't know. However, the filmmaker still looks outside and watches the unearthly glow sweep everything in its path. "I didn't do what you think I did, Mark."

"How do you know what I think you did?"

Roger gulps, crossing his arms around his knees. "I went to go see Collins. To talk to him."

Mark can't blame him. The philosopher has always known what to do; it's almost as if Collins holds all of the answers to the world's problems. In that brain of his, where great jokes and witty humor and love and shyness come from, Collins knows the answer to ever question man has ever asked. He's doing man a favor by not sharing them, and in doing so, is living a life that is simply _philosophical_.

"Mark…I don't want to die."

"Who does?"

Mark knows it's a completely different situation for Roger, but that's something he can't handle right now. Roger has no KS lesions, has no terribly bad bruises or lack of hair, and quite frankly, Mark thinks he'll deal with it when it happens, and only then. He's not ready to loose his film subject. He's not ready to loose his roommate. He's not ready to loose _Roger_.

There are times when the two are dirt broke and hungry and freezing, but they have each other. They are both _there_. And with one gone, it throws the entire mathematical equation off.

One part slums, one part poverty multiplied by art supplies bracket guitar picks plus film plus paper plus typewriter plus notebook plus pen close bracket times parenthesis philosophy plus long talks on fire escapes about everything and nothing plus university classrooms and books on metaphysics parenthesis to the best friends of epic proportions power. Fraction bar.

Underneath, one crazy performance artist that is about as loyal as Puccini's Musetta and craves the same amount of attention. Add a fake-red headed heathen that poses in scenes in order to fit in with the crowd, the music, and the lead guitarist. Add another, this time a struggling writer that seems to switch daily: prose, poetry; non-fiction, fiction; bohemian, yuppie.

Multiply by disease, drugs, the Lower East Side, a lack of an income, hunger, and neon and chrome.

The time ticks by as Mark gets sucked into his math problem more and more, working with variables unlike any he's had to work with before. Roger won't look away from the clouds; from the pre-halflight shining in all its glory, and Mark wonders if they'll be stuck in this limbo of sameness forever.

Then, when Roger walks back to the package he dropped earlier and pulls out a Fender guitar, Mark almost drops his camera. Roger hasn't played that guitar since heroin became the string around his life, pulling tight and hard for a year.

It may be a sign of love. Maybe it's a sign of giving up. It doesn't really matter, anyway.

The halflight's streaming in now, some of it spilling on to Mark's pants like liquid gushing out of sink. The loft regains its quietness except for the winding of Mark's camera, and for some reason, even though almost nothing about the situation has changed from anything that it was in the past, Mark feels like everything is back to normal. The sun either rising or setting, life is bad, but in a good way, and both Mark and Roger are not only alive but also doomed, blessed, destined to a life of dependency, starvation, poverty, art, and disease. And for some reason, that knowledge is neither ugly nor beautiful, scary nor hopeful.

The halflight hangs in the air, holding on to what _was_, what _should be_, but now, also, a potent amount of what_ is_.

And although there will be many times in the near future Mark Cohen finds himself in this position yet again, he sits on that old, metal table and vows to never sleep unless he absolutely has to.

And why, you ask?

Mark knows that if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, nothing will _ever _be the same when he wakes up.

That's the entire idea behind halflight.

Roger begins plucking eighth notes, strumming out Musetta's Waltz, and Mark hops off the table, winding the knob back and zooming in on his roommate.

"December 24th, 9 P.M. Eastern Standard Time. From here on in, I shoot without a script..."


	2. Room to Live Draft

**A/N: This was the rough draft for Streetlights. It's more than likely that most of you have already read it, but I figured I'd include it so people could comment on things they liked in one that wasn't included in the another or things they wished had transfered. You catch the drift.  
**

* * *

When the light flashes through the loft window, it remains only long enough to show the dark circles under Mark's eyes. The room echoes with emptiness, a strange void of limbo with a soundtrack of film being wound into a camera. For some reason, he can't help but wonder…if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, will it all be the same when he wakes up?

Mark used to be used to this; the staying up for three, four days at a time. Back when Roger was the Rock God, he would disappear for days to reach for temporary baggies of amnesia. The filmmaker enjoyed the time without groupies and band members, without the stoned rocker, with nothing but him and his camera. He would film the silence so that he could play it on the cracked wall in his room and disappear into the silence when it wasn't peaceful in the loft. Maybe that's when he developed the same addiction to his camera that Roger had to a leather belt around his arm, but he can't be sure. Nevertheless, that all changes when April's gone.

The rock star's heroine was far too into heroin, and she was too vain about poising her veins. April gilded use, and when she offs herself, the note she leaves leaves the guild's leader weak for weeks. Days like this, when the rains falls and the only light comes from lightning and almost burnt out candles, Mark need not be kneaded into a knight for the night. This junkie—roommate—friend—_Roger_ has wales from nights of wailing and pain and withdrawal, and there are times when Mark thinks it's better to let Roger spend his time in a smack-induced daze than to have to count the days without him. It's almost pathetic, how dependent he is on Roger. The filmmaker looks at him for support; an outlet he can live through. Being behind a camera is nirvana, allowing you to capture life as it's happening so that you can allow it to happen again whenever you want to. It's been four months since April left that note, left the world, and left Roger alone, afraid, and positive. For four months, the two have been withdrawing; Roger from the drugs, Mark from the camera.

The bad thing about being behind a camera is that your brain starts to work as one, too. So even when Mark scrubs and scrubs and _scrubs _his memory, the blood –stained letters, "WE'VE GOT AIDS," flicker, the red of the liquid mixing with the red of her hair, both contrasting brightly against the white tile of the bathroom.

Even when the track marks are gone, the dark circles remain and his too-thin frame reminds the two what disease is wreaking havoc on Roger, making him so weak that he reeks from weeks of being unable to stand in the shower. Four nights ago, the rocker decided it's not worth is, tied a knot around his arm with a belt, and fazed into a phase of rebellion. No more withdrawal. No more rules. No more rehab. No more Mark.

Now, he must quickly adapt. It has been four days since Mark last slept, but he refuses to do so until Roger gets home.

Mark hates filming the silence now, just because it's a reminder that without Roger, he's alone. It's a reminder that he films an HIV-positive ex-rock star so that when he dies, Mark won't forget him. Hours and hours of film, and he'll simply have to throw it away—Roger's not on it.

When he dropped out of Brown, Benny told him he was making the biggest mistake of his life. And then, when he sold his every last possession for a $500 Bolex 16mm camera, Collins laughed and told him it would be the best thing to ever happen to him. Kind of like Intro to Bohemia 101, except without the warm dorm and roommate to return to.

He wants to shout at them now—the hypocrite for being right and the philosopher for being wrong. It's all April Erikson's fault.

Mark was raised better than to talk rudely about the dead, but he can distinctly remember a summer conversation with April on the fire escape in which she said, "You know, Mark…for some people, hell is better than their life on earth."

A lot of things could have brought up that conversation, from Manhattan heat to their illegal wood burning stove. Nevertheless, it happened, and it makes Mark feel like it's his fault she's no longer here. It's a warning sign, isn't it? Why is it that every single person that gets around Mark has to die? Collins, AIDS. Roger, HIV. Maureen…well, Maureen left him for a woman. That's a completely different story.

When Collins was here, they never had this problem. Collins always knew what to do; despite his anarchist ways, he _was_ the rules of the loft. No girls tonight, Rog. Okay, Collins. Mark, get that damn camera _out _of my face. Sorry, Collins. Maybe it was because the philosopher spoke so much about blurred lines and distortions and the difference between what _is_ and what _should be_. Mark _should be_ getting a life, not filming others. Roger _should be_ facing actual reality instead of dipping into drunken stupors. And when he's gone, what _is_becomes the new _what should be_, and the two are stuck with their obsessions and no one to help them out.

The loft door slides open, making Mark jump. Roger slams it closed just as fast, dripping water all over the place. He grunts a hello upon seeing the filmmaker and disappears into the back, and when he comes back in dry sweats, Mark's filming him. The light flickers again and forces Roger's image into the grain of the strip of paper, watching him walk around the loft and put the kettle on.

"What's your problem?" He snaps at the filmmaker, pouring the steaming water into a cracked mug.

"Huh?" Is the best Mark can muster because your voice gets a little hoarse when you haven't spoken in four days.

"All you've done is film since I've left, isn't it? God, you're so pathetic, Mark…"

The words sting more than Roger will _ever_ know, but Mark refuses to give up. "Take your AZT. It's in the living room."

The rock star slams the kettle back on the hot plate and turns, green eyes glaring at him. Mark doesn't care, though, because he only sees it through his camera lens, and for some reason that makes it a _hell _of a lot less worse. "Since when do we call it a fucking _living room_? We don't have much room to live."

"Roger, when you were gone, how much did you—?"

"Damnit, Mark! Can I not just have ten minutes of peace?!" Roger flings the top off the pill bottle and pops one in his mouth, swallowing.

A lot of unsaid words go between the two. Mark points out the dangers of heroin use, how it'll only make his immune system weaker and make him die sooner. Roger argues that he's not dying, he'll never die, he's immortal and secure in the world. The two fight about blurred lines and distortions, what is and what should be, and now, what will _never_ be. The lightning stops as Roger sits Indian style on the window seat, leaving him only rain to watch.

"I…I didn't do any. I did some counseling," The rock star whispers. Mark takes this as a sign that he's calmed down, so he sits across from Roger on the window seat, leaning against the freezing cold glass.

"…Oh…"

"M-Mark…" This choked out whisper is so much different than the yelling voice that had previously embodied itself in Roger, and Mark almost thinks he's just hearing things. A single tear rolls down Roger's cheek, pushing dirt off the skin and dropping from his chin. "Mark…I don't want to die."

The filmmaker's fingers itch for the camera; itch to get this moment on film and have it forever so that when the rock star is losing his hair and getting KS lesions, he can look back and remember that this is who Roger really is. But something about Roger's words paralyze him, and he starts crying, too.

"I know, Rog…I know."

The men—roommates—best friends—_Mark and Roger_ sit on the window seat, watching the streets of New York flood. For now, Roger is there, healthy, and beating his addiction. He is not in need of a walking stick or oxygen mask. He is not covered in whelps and lesions and cuts and bruises. For now, Roger is here, still shining in his rock star glory with his bleached hair and tattoos and leather jacket. For now, Roger is home, and things are back to the way they always were before smack and April and New York when it was just the two of them tackling life.

And for some reason, Mark can't help but wonder…if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, will it all be the same when he wakes up?


End file.
